by Diana Quincy
“You’ve certainly put your stamp on the place,” Hunt said.
Leela’s manservant entered with the tea, which she proceeded to serve. To Hunt’s disappointment, the source of the delicious fresh bread smell did not appear to be among the cakes and sandwiches set out for the guests. There was certainly nothing as interesting as the za’atar he’d sampled from her table. He also noted the lack of mint in the tea. Leela, it seemed, served traditional English tea to her guests.
Refreshments in hand, Hunt and Devon settled into identical French chairs upholstered in the same cream fabric that adorned the windows.
Leela directed her attention to Devon. “What would you like to do with the extra furnishings? I would like to clear the small salon as well.”
“Those marble tables are quite valuable,” Aunt Helene put in, her manner as stiff as her immobile hair. “They should not be stored away.”
“Then by all means, you are welcome to take them up to the Hall,” Leela said.
“There is no need for that.” Devon drank from his tea. “None of the furnishings in this house are going anywhere. Lady Devon’s accommodation here is temporary.”
Leela visibly stiffened. Hunt interceded. “Is this not the dower house?” he asked Devon.
“It has traditionally been so,” Devon responded. “However, Lady Devon is hardly here. Victoria tells me she intends to continue traveling.”
“I see.” Hunt’s stomach did a little flip. She was leaving. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” Leela’s measured gaze met his. “I think I shall visit North Africa next. Perhaps Morocco.”
“Precisely my point,” Devon said with a toss of his hand, “it would be a waste to keep Parkwood open and available to Lady Devon when she is so rarely in residence.”
Hunt persisted. “Surely Lady Devon needs a home when she is not abroad. As the previous earl’s widow, the lady does have certain rights.”
“She can stay with us at Eaton Park,” Victoria said excitedly before catching herself. She blushed and covered her mouth. “That is, if that would be agreeable to you, Your Grace . . . erm . . . Hunt.”
He avoided looking in Leela’s direction. “Lady Devon would be most welcome.”
Of course, he could never turn her away, but Hunt fervently hoped Leela wouldn’t come to Eaton Park. If she did, the estate would be ruined for him. Once he knew what it was to have her in his home, among his things, Eaton would always feel empty in her absence.
“I do believe that is Grandpapa’s desk.” Aunt Helene stared at Leela’s writing table. “When we were young, my brother, Devon’s grandfather, and I found a secret compartment in it.”
“How intriguing!” Victoria clasped her hands together in front of her chest. “Do you think you can still find it, Aunt Helene?”
The old woman pushed to her feet. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” Mrs. Paget followed Aunt Helene.
“Is it quite a mess.” Leela leaped to her feet and strode over. “Let me clean it off first.”
Aunt Helene reached the desk before Leela. Everyone rose and followed the ladies to the writing table.
“Really,” Aunt Helene said with disdain. “Why do you have so many papers strewn about your desk like a common clerk?”
Leela hurriedly gathered the documents, stacking them haphazardly and holding them against her chest. A few papers escaped, sailing to the ground. Devon knelt to gather them, but Hunt got there first.
“Allow me.” He quickly collected the papers. As he stacked them, Hunt couldn’t help but notice that these were no ordinary letters. In fact, they were not letters at all.
“Here it is!” Aunt Helene exclaimed from her place at the side of the desk. “I just knew I would find it.”
Mrs. Paget’s eyes widened. “How clever!”
“May I see?” Victoria edged closer.
“Interesting,” Devon said, peering over the ladies’ shoulders.
Papers in hand, Hunt straightened to find Leela watching him with a question in her eyes. “I’m going to step into the study to put these up.”
“I’ll accompany you since your hands are full,” he said. The others in the room were too busy examining the secret compartment to pay them much mind.
Leela remained silent as she went across the hall. She paused at the front hall table, opening the single small drawer, and withdrew a key. Unlocking the door, she went inside. Hunt followed. Before him was another desk and a long table covered with paper arranged in neat, side-by-side piles. As he came closer, he saw it was a book, sorted and laid out by chapter. She let him look his fill.
“So now you know.”
“I suppose I do.” He stared down at a chapter entitled, “Journey to the Dead Sea.” “You certainly are full of surprises. You wrote Travels in Arabia.”
She spread linen over the table, concealing her writing. “I hope this will not color your decision to wed Victoria and align yourself with this family.”
He frowned. “Why should it?”
“I’m a lady, a countess, who is engaging in trade.”
“You are writing under an assumed name.”
“Yes, but if anyone learns of this it could cause a terrible scandal.”
“All this revelation does is deepen my appreciation. You are a most talented writer.” He felt a rush of admiration for her. “The fact that you authored the most acclaimed travelogue in London proves you are even more intriguing and spectacular than I realized.”
Pleasure lit her lovely face. His words pleased her. Longing coursed through Hunt’s veins. His chest ached for want of her. He couldn’t resist stepping closer, near enough to touch her. She didn’t move.
He kept his hands fisted by his sides. If he allowed himself to feel the softness of her skin, he’d be lost. Instead, he lightly brushed his lips to the tender place where her neck melted to her shoulder. He buried his face in the nape of her neck, inhaling the scent of soap and warm woman and everything he could not have. She tilted her head, her soft cheek meeting his, embracing him in the only way either of them dared.
“We must stop,” she whispered.
“Yes.” Sorrow roiling his chest, his need for her unending, Hunt straightened as she stepped away.
The door pushed open. “There you are.” Devon appeared in the doorway. His suspicious gaze flitted between the two of them. “What is going on in here?”
“His Grace was kind enough to help me with my letters.” Leela busied herself straightening the linen that concealed her manuscript. “Then he asked to see the rest of the house.”
A skeptical expression came over Devon’s face. “Huntington wants to look around Parkwood?”
“Are you giving a tour?” Victoria’s bright face popped up behind Devon. “I should like to come along as well.”
“And so you shall,” Leela said crisply, deftly ushering everyone out the door. “This way, if you please.”
Hunt felt Devon’s assessing gaze glued to him as the gentlemen followed the ladies out of the room.
Chapter Fifteen
“My dear Lady Devon, what a lovely surprise. Please do come in.”
Mr. Sherman ushered Leela into his dark paneled office on Well Street in Coventry. “I did not realize you’ve arrived back at Lambert Hall after all of this time. And looking more lovely than ever, I must add.”
“Thank you. I returned quite recently.” She’d selected one of her finest day dresses to meet with Douglas’s solicitor. Lace embellished the high neckline and cuffs of her violet gown. Matching trim adorned her bonnet. She always came away with better results when armored in her countess attire.
“It is certainly our pleasure to have you back among us.”
An avuncular, balding man in his fifties, Mr. Sherman balanced round, wire-rimmed spectacles low on the bridge of his nose. Leela was not well acquainted with the solicitor. However, his smile seemed genuine and he’d treated her respectfully in the past, whenever he visited Lambert Hall to meet with her late husband.<
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“You needn’t have troubled yourself to come all the way to Coventry,” he said. “You could have summoned me and I would have called on you as I always did for the late earl.”
“I will bear that in mind in the future.”
The solicitor hurriedly cleared a stack of books and files from a high-backed red chair opposite his cluttered desk. “Please do take a seat.” He set the pile in his arms on a wood-backed chair next to her.
Mr. Sherman’s office was small, the shelves littered with haphazardly arranged books. Interspersed among the well-worn tomes were porcelain figurines of dogs and horses in varying sizes. The solicitor settled behind his desk and placed his folded hands atop the papers scattered across the oak surface.
“Now, how may I be of service, Lady Devon?”
“I wish to be enlightened about my dower rights as widow of the late Earl of Devon.” She fervently hoped Douglas had left her enough to live independently, so that she could travel and write and have her books published when she pleased, without having to answer to anyone.
“I am happy to be of assistance. However, you should be aware that I no longer serve the current Earl of Devon. Once his father, your late husband, passed, the new earl engaged a new solicitor.”
“I see.” That worked in the man’s favor in Leela’s view. “I am here because, as a widow with no expectation of remarrying, it is important for me to secure my future.”
Her time at Lambert Hall brought home the precariousness of Leela’s financial situation. She could always take shelter with her brother, but she preferred to stand on her own. The widow of an earl had certain rights and she intended to claim them.
There were also the profits from her books to consider. She hadn’t collected any money yet, but the first volume had done very well. By her calculation, she was due to collect upward of two hundred pounds from her publisher. Surely, she could manage on her own without having to depend upon anyone else. The idea of fully establishing her independence appealed to her very much.
“I should like to know the full extent of my dower rights.”
Mr. Sherman’s salt-and-pepper brows drew together. “Your dower rights?”
“Yes, I am entitled, am I not, to one-third of the estate’s earnings?”
“Well”—the word was long and drawn out—“I am afraid it is not as simple as that.”
“Why ever not?” Unease rippled through her. “Surely my late husband made arrangements to provide for me after his death.”
She’d been barely more than a girl when she and Douglas wed. He once told her she would always be looked after, but she never bothered to ask for details. Douglas died suddenly. A heart ailment, the doctor said. What if he hadn’t had time to draw up the necessary papers?
Mr. Sherman passed the flat of his hand over his baldpate. “There are times when the dower rights such as you describe are put aside.”
“Is that what happened in this case? Did Douglas remove my dower rights?”
Mr. Sherman paused. “I seem to remember that you were not present when the late earl’s will was read.”
“Yes, I left for my brother’s estate, my family home, almost immediately after the funeral.”
“Surely the current earl informed you of the terms of his late father’s will.”
“He did not.” Dread filled her. “That is why I am here. Did my husband strip me of my dower rights?”
“He did.”
“When?” Her stomach dropped. “Why?”
“The earl summoned me about a year before he died. That was when he changed the terms of the settlement.”
“Is that allowed?” Panic edged her words. Why would Douglas disinherit her?
“Yes. Especially if one replaces dower rights with something more valuable.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lord Devon was concerned that his heir, the current earl, would make it difficult for you to collect estate earnings given . . . erm . . . I understand there were some . . . difficulties . . . between the two of you.”
“Yes. Please continue.”
“In lieu of one-third of the estate profits, the earl left you a property.”
“Which property? Where?”
He rose and shuffled over to a filing cabinet. “I have it here somewhere.” After a couple of interminable minutes, Mr. Sherman found what he was looking for. “Ah, here it is.” He squinted as he tried to make out the name. “It’s a place called Parkwood.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What?”
He regarded Leela over the rim of his spectacles. “Do you know that property?”
“Yes, I do.” She tried to digest the unexpected news. “Douglas left me Parkwood? Are you certain?”
“Yes, indeed. As well as all of its contents.” Mr. Sherman’s eyes were on the paper in his hands. “And that’s not all.”
“I own Parkwood outright?” Delight flooded her. “It’s not part of the entail?”
He adjusted his spectacles. “No, that particular property is not entailed.”
“And Edgar . . . erm . . . Lord Devon is aware of this?”
“Most certainly. There is more.” He scanned the document in his hands. “In addition to the house and all of its contents, the late earl left you four very profitable farms.”
“He left me a house and an income?” Leela could hardly believe her good fortune.
“Yes, his lordship was most adamant that you be able to live independently and not have to be at the mercy of his son’s largesse.”
Tears blurred her vision. Even in death, Douglas continued to look after her. “He understood Edgar very well.”
“Apparently.” Mr. Sherman gave her a kindly look. “You, young lady, will live very comfortably for the remainder of your life on the income generated by those farms. You will want for nothing. Unless,” he added after a pause, “you are an extravagant spender.”
“I assure you that I am not.”
“There is one more thing. The late earl stipulated that if you ever wish to sell Parkwood, you are required to allow the Earl of Devon the first right of refusal. That is, you must allow his lordship to match any and all offers you receive on the property.”
“I see.” Leela could hardly believe it. Douglas had left her enough to set up a modest household in London while also funding her travels. Then the other reality hit her. Edgar had tried to rob her of her inheritance.
She rose. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sherman. You have been most helpful.”
He came to his feet as well. “I am pleased to be of service. If there is anything further that I may do for you, please do not hesitate to inquire.”
“Actually, there is. I find myself in need of a solicitor.”
She returned to Parkwood late that afternoon to find the object of her animosity making himself at home in her front reception room.
“There you are, Delilah.” Edgar lounged on her sofa, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingertips. He did not rise, as any gentleman would, when she entered. “I have been waiting for you.”
“What are you doing here?” She removed her bonnet. “Where is Hashem?”
“The little foreign man? I sent him on an errand so we could speak privately.” Relaxing against the cushions, he spread one arm over the rim of the sofa’s curved back and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee. It was not how a gentleman should sit in the presence of a lady.
“What kind of errand did you send Hashem on?”
He took a long, unhurried swallow of brandy. “The sort that will keep him from bothering us for at least a couple of hours.”
“I see.” The kalb was clearly up to something. She was curious to learn what it was before she threw him out of her house.
His gaze roamed over her. “You certainly are in good looks today. Is there a reason you are so dressed up?”
“I had an appointment.”
“What sort of appointment.”
“A private appointment.”
His ey
ebrows lifted. “Ah. I see.”
“I doubt that.” She leaned her hips against her writing table, crossed her arms over her chest and waited for him to get to the point.
“I think it is past time you and I came to an understanding.” He finished his drink and set the empty glass on the side table with a thunk. “Don’t you agree?”
“That depends upon what you have in mind.” She did not care for the gleam in his eyes. She’d detected that predatory look once before, when Edgar had visited her bedchamber at Lambert Hall.
“You want this house.”
“I do.” And it’s mine.
He rose and sauntered over to her. Coming too close. His breath reeked of alcohol. “I think we can come to an understanding.”
“So you’ve said.” She came to her full height. No longer leaning against the desk, she stood almost eye to eye with her stepson. “Are you planning to come to the point anytime soon?”
“You want this house.”
“Again stating the obvious. Have you anything new to share?”
He stared at her with glossy eyes. “And I want you.”
“What?” It took her a moment to process his words. Edgar had always hated her.
“You are a woman of the world now. You’re no longer that innocent girl my father married. Surely you entertained men on your travels.”
“I did no such thing.” Her muscles stiffened. “I suggest you step away from me.”
“It’s the perfect solution.” He didn’t move. “You keep the house and I will visit you from time to time.”
“You’re foxed.”
He shrugged. “I’ve had a few glasses of brandy, but I know what I want and at the moment it’s you.”
“You are despicable.” He was entirely too close, boxing her in against the desk. To slip past him, her body would have to brush against his. “I have warned you. Step away before I make you regret it.”
His gaze lowered to her décolletage. “I’ve wanted to bed you from the moment Father brought you home. And I think you want it, too.”